Home May be Far, but It's Never Gone
by bloomingintheshadows
Summary: Mickey's journey to build his life in Mexico without Ian..and what happens when Ian Gallagher finally finds his way back to the Southside piece of trash he loves.


**Author's Note**

I wrote this out of the pure heartbreak of season seven. I really do hope the writer's decide to make Gallavich endgame. I know why Ian didn't go to Mexico with Mickey, but I really think they could be happy once Mickey finds a stable place in his life. And honestly I got the feeling that's what Mickey wanted too, so I was sad Ian didn't follow him.

I needed a happy ending because the Shameless writers have a vendetta against happiness. It's an EXTREMELY slow build (the story took on a life of it's own), but I could never give Gallavich a picture perfect romance novel type reunion. Eventually though, Ian will come back to Mickey.

* * *

It takes everything in Mickey not to steal one last look at Ian Gallagher as he crosses the border. He knows all he has to do is glance through the rearview mirror and maybe he could still see the blurry outline of boy with red hair. Ian's not a boy now though; he's a fancy fucking EMT with a boyfriend and a bank account. He wants to look, but he doesn't.

As soon as border control waves him through, Mickey wants to rip the wig off his head. He looks fucking ridiculous, but he forces himself to keep it on. He needs to keep up the facade until he's far enough away from the border that no one will be looking for him.

Mickey wants to scream and punch something, but he keeps his hands tightly around the wheel. If he doesn't think and just keeps staring ahead, he feels nothing. All the hurt and anger that are bubbling just below the surface are temporarily sedated.

He doesn't know how long he drives. His eyes are glued to the dusty road in front of him, which eventually fades from pavement to dirt. At some point the light on the dash flicks on to warn him there's only thirty miles of gas left in the tank. Mickey reluctantly pulls into the first gas station he sees (a run down building covered in dirt with only one pump).

The pile of cash, Ian's cash, feels dirty in Mickey's hands. His stomach twists into a painful knot as he watches the gas pump eat a twenty dollar bill. It's a miracle that a gas station this far into Mexico still accepts American money, and Mickey realizes he's going to have to find a way to exchange it. Except, how does he do that? Ian would know. Ian would. Fuck Ian.

Damon had a friend that he said they could stay with, but even if Mickey knew where they were supposed to go, he wasn't about to show up there after he dumped Damon's ass on the side of the road. He wishes he managed to take a road map when Damon robbed the convenience store; he has no clue where the fuck he's going. Mickey wonders if someone will steal the car if he goes inside to buy some food or something, but can't find it in himself to care that much.

He takes the wad of cash and stuffs it down the front of his shirt. Girls do that, right? Inside the store he grabs a bag of chips and a coke. At the last minute he sees a Spanish-English dictionary and buys that too. The only Spanish he learned from Damon was how to say 'where's the bathroom' and 'fuck off'.

Mickey's back in the car as quickly as his legs will take him. He pulls away from the gas station and continues driving.

He promises himself that he won't waste Ian's money drifting from town to town. He'll find a shitty apartment and get a job or something along those lines. Then, he'll repay every goddamn dollar Ian Gallagher gave him. He doesn't know how he'll get the money back to Ian, but he will. He won't look at something that reminds him of Ian Gallagher again.

* * *

The first three towns Mickey reaches after leaving the gas station is filled with police. The houses are barely standing, and there's plastic bags blowing through the streets. He grips the wheel even harder, but forces himself to stay calm and drive through. He's not about to blow it now.

The next two towns are fucking picturesc suburbia; it makes Mickey uncomfortable. There are white fences with trimmed lawns. He sticks out like a sore thumb, and Mickey knows he can't stay there longer than a few minutes or someone will be hauling his ass to jail.

The fourth town is just the place Mickey is looking for. It's nice, but not nice enough to keep people like Mickey away. The little town square has an auto-shop, diner, bank, and what Mickey thinks is a laundromat. It reminds him of Southside. Past the town square, are five large concrete apartment buildings that are painted bright orange and red. One of them has a sign hanging out of it, and Mickey prays that it's advertising an apartment for rent.

Before he gets out of the car, Mickey finally takes off the wig and changes into pants. He briefly considers burning that goddamn dress, but there is a possibility he might need it again. He takes out the Spanish-English dictionary and searches for the words 'rent', 'apartment' or 'lease'. Maybe the universe was feeling generous (after all it had fucked with Mickey for the last few years), but the words on the sign definitely matched 'apartment' and 'rent'.

The landlord is a man somewhere in his eighties that speaks just enough English to happily show Mickey to apartment 4C. He makes Mickey sign a contract, but the only thing it requires is his name. He signs it _Mickey Smith._ Fuck hell it's suspicious.

"You pay in Pesos?" The man asks.

"The fuck?"

"You pay in Pesos or American dollars?"

Mickey pauses. He just assumed that he would have to exchange all his money, but maybe he won't.

"American."

"Seventy-five dollars one month. Fifty now."

Mickey tries to remember how much cash Ian gave him. Fifty dollars sounds like a whole fucking lot, but at this point he just wants a place where he can sit and relax. He hands the man fifty dollars in exchange for a pair of keys. In all honesty, Mickey has no clue what he's about to walk into. The apartment could have bedbugs or be a fucking drug den. Maybe both.

Thankfully, when he opens the door he's only greeted by a mildly shitty apartment. There's no furniture, but the main room looks clean and habitable. To the left is a narrow kitchen with just enough room for a person to slide in and out. Off to the right side of the room is a tiny bathroom that barely has fits a shower, sink, and toilet (all of which are cracked in some place).

Suddenly, the room is stifling. The adrenaline is gone and there's nothing to distract him from his thoughts. There's nothing but silence. Everything hurts. Mickey slides down against the wall and tries to pull himself together, but it's useless.

Ian's gone, and Mickey will never see him again. Ian, the person he thought of everyday behind bars, left him. No disease or psycho fathers holding them back, just them. And at the end of the day it didn't matter how much Mickey loved Ian because he still wasn't good enough. Mickey was just some criminal trash that Ian didn't want to be involved with.

Some part of his brain is trying to tell him that Ian loves him, that Ian has always loved him, but in the burst of anger and hurt it's lost. All he can think about is all the visitation days where he just prayed that Ian would come; all the nights where the only thing keeping him sane was thoughts of Ian; the momentary happiness he felt when Ian threw his bag in the car, and then how is was ripped away from him just like everything else in his life.

Mickey wishes Ian never came with him to Mexico. He wishes Ian stayed with his fucking boyfriend and never gave Mickey that tiny spark of hope. He wishes he listened to Damon and left prison without saying a word to Ian Gallagher

Mostly, Mickey wishes he was never stupid enough to let himself believe anyone could love him.

* * *

It takes a week for Mickey to find a job. The man at the hardware store's name is Tom, and he moved here from California. Although Mickey knows jack shit about tools, Tom hires him simply because Mickey promises to show up to work everyday. The job's pretty boring (he just restocks the shelves), and Mickey doesn't actually know how much he's getting paid. At the end of each week Tom just hands him an envelope of cash that Mickey sometimes counts. He uses the money to get himself some soap, clothes, shampoo and other household shit.

It takes two weeks for Mickey to find a job he's good at. His downstairs neighbor, Carlos, helps the local gang run drug money. It's nothing too large scale, but they make good money selling coke and meth to all the nearby towns (including fucking suburbia). Carlos approaches him about helping out when he sees Mickey beat the shit of a guy trying to steal wrenches from the store.

Carlos promises Mickey a few hundred dollars a week if he helps them get money from _uncooperative_ clients. Mickey almost declines, but then realizes he has nothing better to do. Besides, it gives him a good excuse to beat the shit out of someone.

The voice in the back of his head says that Ian didn't give him money to become a drug dealer, but he accepts Carlos's offer and reminds himself Ian's not there. So, from nine till four Mickey keeps his boring ass job, and then spends a few hours cornering drug addicts in back alleys. Carlos helps Mickey exchange half his money for Pesos, but he keeps the other half a is. The town seems pretty flexible about currency, but Mickey wants to be prepared.

After one month he buys a mattress and table from the family on the first floor who's moving. His back appreciates his purchase after sleeping on prison bunks and wood floors, but he can't look at his bed without thinking Ian should have been there. Ian should have been complaining about the loud music from the apartment above or getting mad at Mickey for joining a gang. But Ian didn't want to be there; it was just Mickey.

* * *

After a month and a half, he meets his next door neighbor when he accidently punches a hole in the wall. Between the feeling of emptiness and dreams of Ian, Mickey doesn't sleep well. One night, he wakes up from a dream where Ian came with him to Mexico. Only, when he reaches out to find nothing but air, does Mickey's brain remember what really happened. In a fit of rage Mickey shoots up and puts his fist through the wall.

As Mickey's gripping his hand and praying it's not broken, there's an angry knock on the door. When he opens it he's greeted by a woman in her twenties with large glasses and black hair. She looks pissed.

"Idiota! Sabes cuánto esto va a costar?" She shouts.

"I don't know what the fuck you're saying!" Mickey screams back.

The woman stops shouting and just stares at him. Mickey considers slamming the door in her face, but if she starts screaming again, people are going to get mad at him.

"You put a hole through my wall," she says in English.

Mickey pauses. "Sorry. I'll talk to the landlord in the morning."

He tries to close the door, but she stops him. Mickey groans; he going to have one of those fucking nosy neighbors isn't he?

"You're hand is swelling."

"No shit. That kind of happens when you punch a wall."

"Let me take a look at it."

"It's fine."

"It might be broken."

She reaches for Mickey's hand, but he pulls away. He can't deal with this.

"Well, then I'll go find a fucking doctor or something," he says.

"I'm a nurse. A nurse in training, actually."

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

"You broke my wall. Humor me."

"Fine."

The girl speaks nonstop as she checks over Mickey's hand. It's really fucking annoying at first, but after a while he finds himself listening out of boredom. Her name's Alejandra, she's twenty-four, and she works at the hospital two towns over. She'll officially be a nurse in a few months, and she thinks Mickey needs to go outside more.

Mickey hates her.

* * *

The wall ends up costing him all of his hard earned drug money. Mickey curses himself for being so fucking emotional over a guy who probably doesn't even love him anymore. That night, he channels all his anger into beating some addict so hard that Carlos has to pull him off and tell him to chill. He wipes away the tears before Carlos can see them.

Carlos never asks why Mickey moved to Mexico, although Mickey's pretty sure he already knows. There's not a lot of reasonable explanations for a white boy with nothing but a pile of cash in his pockets to show up here. But take away the drug dealing, Carlos is a good guy; he's getting his GED and wants to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend (an endeavor which Mickey warns him is asking for trouble). At twenty, he's too young to know better.

That night Carlos takes him to get drunk at the diner, which turns into a bar after nine. The tables are old and full of splinters if he slides his hand across and the glass windows are covered in dust, but it's the only place with beer. The only reason Mickey ever goes drinking with Carlos is that if he gets drunk enough, he no longer thinks about Ian. Plus, Carlos always pays, and Mickey's not about to turn down free alcohol.

"You alright, amigo?" Carlos asks, sliding Mickey a beer.

"Fucking peachy," he mumbles.

* * *

A week after Mickey met her, Alejandra shows up on his doorstep at ten o'clock with two large textbooks.

Mickey groans. "The fuck do you want?"

"I'm going to teach you Spanish."

"I've been doing pretty well with just English, thanks."

This time he tries to slam the door in her face, but she sticks her foot in the door before he can. Mickey wants to know where a nurse gets this much body strength.

"You speak to Carlos and Tom, the only two people who speak English besides me. Do you want to blend in or not?"

There's something in the way Alejandra says that, that makes Mickey feel like she very well knows Mickey needs to stay low. He's tempted to close to the door anyways, but the offer is too good to pass up. Maybe she'll leave him alone once he can have a basic conversation.

They sit at the two shitty chairs Carlos gave Mickey for an hour and a half. Alejandra talks about conjugation and accents while Mickey _attempts_ to repeat what she's saying. He's not sure he learns anything, but Alejandra seems satisfied. She leaves him a beginner textbook and tell him to read the first few chapters when he has the time.

Mickey will never admit it, but he kinda likes her.

* * *

After four months, Mickey thinks he has his shit together. He still doesn't sleep at night, but he's managed not to put anymore holes in the wall. He drove the car four hours away and sold it to a young couple who were driving down to Central America (dressed in a badass disguise of course).

Alejandra comes over to his place once a week or so and teaches him as much as his brain is capable of handling. He accidently calls the landlord a potato, but it's progress. She's put sticky notes around his apartment that remind him of words and grammar structures. The first time Mickey saw one he almost cried because he'd forgotten what it's like to have someone that cares.

He accepts there will forever be an ache in his chest where Ian should be. Sometimes, he finds a passerby in the diner and fucks them in the grimy bathroom, but that's it. He vows he'll never allow anyone to hurt him like Ian did. Mickey thinks he's proved he can do a lot even when no one cares about him.

On the nights when he gets really drunk, he comes back to his apartment and still cries over a boy he was never good enough for. On those nights he wonders what Ian's doing now. He probably went back to his boyfriend and continued on with his life like Mickey never happened, like Mickey didn't matter. Ian will probably get married someday, live some white picket fence like while Mickey dies in a gang war.

Sometimes he wonders if Ian meant it when he told Mickey he loved him. It's a sick thing to wonder, and it threatens to tear Mickey's insides apart. But all he can think about is how someone who claimed to love him couldn't even make the drive to see him once in an entire year. The person who claimed to love him told him that he didn't want to waste his life on Mickey.

Mickey rubs the tattoo on his chest and wonders why the person he loves so much couldn't just love him back.

* * *

After six months, shit hits the fan. Carlos proposes to his girlfriend, Maria, after dragging Mickey to every jewelry store imaginable. He only picks a ring once Mickey threatens to cut his dick off unless he decides right then. Despite his threats, Carlos talks about Maria and how he's going to propose the entire fucking ride back.

That night, Carlos invites everyone he knows, drug dealers and all, to the diner. They wait for about twenty minutes before Carlos bursts in shouting that Maria said yes. There's a lot of congratulations and pats on the back before the alcohol busts out.

Maybe it was the fact he had to watch two people in love coo over each other or maybe he was just lonely, but either way Mickey drinks too much beer. Within the first two hours he's already had five. He snaps at anyone brave enough to talk to him and just sits in the corner of the bar and ignores everyone.

Alejandra leaves after the first hour, and Carlos is too busy pressing kisses to Maria's cheeks to pay any attention to anyone else. If Mickey closes his eyes, it's almost like he's back in Southside. Kev would be behind the bar, and Ian wouldn't be hundreds of miles away. Mickey takes another sip of beer. He needs to stop thinking about Ian.

"Hey, amigo. Why are you hiding over here? That girl there's checking you out," Carlos says.

He slaps Mickey's back, but he's looking at Maria. Mickey knows very little about her other than Carlos thinks she hold the moon and the sun in her hands. She's nice enough looking (tall, slender, long wavy brown hair)...for a girl.

"I want to be in love forever. It's the most amazing feeling in the world!" Carlos says.

Mickey sort of smiles because he remembers a time when his love for Ian didn't destroy his life.

"I mean it, man. You need love. Love is..love is amazing!"

"Yea, you fucking said that."

Carlos goes back to Maria after that, which Mickey is just fine with. He drinks another beer, and plans on heading out if he can figure out where the door is. His plans are thwarted by Carlos who corners him just before he reaches the door.

"You ever been in love, Mickey?"

Carlos isn't smiling or laughing. He's dead serious. Later on, Mickey will blame alcohol for what he said, but that won't change the fact that it's true.

"Yes," Mickey admits.

Carlos's eye brighten. "Really? I never would have thought…"

"You learn new shit everyday."

"Tell me about it, man. What was she like?"

"He's got that red hair that sticks out all over the place, and he's basically a sasquatch. He's off his rocker sometimes, but now he's fucking EMT."

Mickey can see Carlos is slightly taken back. He almost wishes he hadn't said anything, but Mickey's too drunk to care. Carlos probably won't remember anything anyways.

"What...well...what happened?"

Mickey laughs curtly. "He left me at the border. He said he was going to come here with me. I thought he meant it. Got my hopes up and everything."

The shock on Carlos's face seems to be gone. The room is spinning now, and Mickey has to grab onto the wall to keep upright.

"You know what you should do? Write him a fucking letter, tell him how great your life his without him."

"Carlos...you're a fucking genius."

Carlos grabs Mickey's arm. "Maria! Dame un pedazo de papel!"

Maria brings them pen and paper, and Carlos thanks her with a kiss. Carlos pulls him over to one of the tables and gives Mickey the pen. If he was sober, he'd realize what a terrible idea this is, but he is not sober.

"Tell him you got rich sending meth to the States, and you're running your own empire. Say you got a boyfriend-two boyfriends and a girlfriend!"

What ends up on the paper is the exact opposite of what Carlos tells him to write. Mickey doesn't actually remember that much of what he writes, and but he knows the general idea. He writes how much he loves Ian, how much he wishes Ian was there, how he can't sleep without Ian. He writes how much he wishes he never met Ian, how much Ian broke his heart, and how much Mickey wishes Ian could have loved him.

By the time he finishes Carlos has found an envelope and stamps (from the fucking bartender maybe?). He convinces Mickey to stuff the paper inside and seal it.

"We have to send this, amigo!" Carlos says, waving his beer bottle.

"I can't-I can't send it from here. They'll track it down."

"That's what cars are for! Come on, I know a guy at the post office who is real discreet."

Mickey knows it's a bad idea even in his drunken state. That doesn't stop him.

"Let's do it."

Carlos drags Maria to his car while Mickey trails behind. Maria's driving, Carlos is swooning over her, and Mickey is stuck in the back.

They drive for about thirty minutes before they reach the post office. All three of them have to lean on each other in order to make it to the door, and even then Carlos falls down twice.

The man behind the counter is tall and gangly with greasy black hair. Carlos speaks rapid Spanish to him and sets the letter on the counter. The place is too clean for Mickey's liking. It smells like they use bleach everyday.

"You need an address," Carlos says.

Mickey fills with anger as he scribbles the proper information onto the envelope. He shouldn't know Ian's address like the back of his hand after six months apart. He shouldn't even think about Ian Gallagher.

"Pablo says he can get it there in a week for eighty bucks."

Mickey reaches in all his pockets and dumps the cash onto the counter. Pablo takes about three quarters of it and slides the rest back to Mickey.

Pablo disappears into the next room for a minute then emerges and nods. Carlos lets out a whoop, but Mickey's stomach feels sick. He can't tell whether it's from the alcohol or the letter.

Maria drops Mickey off at the apartment complex, and leaves to go do god knows what with Carlos. It's not easy to get up four flights of stairs, but Mickey manages to make it up three without falling. By the time he's made it to the fourth floor, he thinks he's home free.

Except his foot catches on the last step, and he ends up on his back. When he tilts his head he can see the stars in the sky. The last time he looked at the stars was with Ian, back when he thought just once his life was going to turn out okay. Was Ian thinking about leaving him then? Did he already plan on breaking Mickey's heart? Did he care?

Mickey forces himself to stand up before his mind can drift into that place where all thoughts are consumed by Ian. The only problem is the world is spinning too much for him to tell which apartment is his. Well, the second problem is Mickey probably can't fit his key into the lock. Fuck.

Eventually, he just starts trying to open a random door. He's pretty sure it's his since he's already passed the apartment with fifty dogs and the one with two broken windows.

Only, it's not his apartment. It's Alejandra's. She opens the door in a bathrobe and bunny slippers with her glasses crooked on her face. She's not happy.

Mickey takes one look at her and bursts into tears. He hides his face because he can't believe he's acting like a fucking pussy. But he can't stop. All he can think about his how alone he is and how he wishes Ian was there. Then he wants to fucking scream because he can't stop thinking about Ian.

To her credit, Alejandra never asks what's wrong or makes an inappropriate joke. She pulls Mickey into a hug, which he promptly tries to wiggle out of.

"Jesus Christ, Mickey. Just relax," she whispers.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes up under a blanket embroidered with daisies and roses. On the nightstand table is a glass of water and Advil. Alejandra's apartment is brighter than Mickey's, and it smells like vanilla. She's hung beading across the walls with pictures and decorations everywhere.

His memories of the night before are foggy, but he remembers babbling about Ian Gallagher while Alejandra stroked his hair. He stumbles into her kitchen and vows to never get drunk again.

"Do you want to talk about it," she asks, as they sit awkwardly at her table.

"Fuck off."

* * *

After a year, Mickey covers up the words _Ian Gallaghe_ r with a tattoo of some tribal shit that the artist designs. Carlos drives him an hour away to find a decent tattoo parlor even though Mickey begs him not to come. Carlos wants to get a tattoo of Maria's name, which almost causes Mickey to punch him right there.

This tattoo is much less painful than the one he got in prison. And this time there's no need to worry about whether the needle is carrying some sort of nasty disease. The tattoo artist takes eight hours to completely cover it. Mickey thinks it's sick how it only took eight hours to erase the most wonderful and heartbreaking years of his life.

As the tattoo artist walks away to get bandages for Carlos's forearm (where Maria's name will forever be imprinted), he sits up and looks Mickey straight in the eyes. It's unsettling.

"The name on your chest, Ian Gallagher...is he that guy? The one you...you know?"

Mickey crosses his arms and looks down. "Yea."

* * *

Mickey thought removing the tattoo would make everything better, but it doesn't. His chest aches like it knows something is missing. He can't even look at himself in the mirror without wanting to scream (and it's not because of how fucking tan he is). Not having the tattoo makes him miss Ian even more.

He remembers looking at that tattoo in prison and trying to convince himself that Ian Gallagher was still out there; that one day they'd finally be together; that Mickey could earn his love back.

Mickey still can't believe how fucking stupid he was.

* * *

After a year and four months, Mikey finally has enough money to repay Ian. He's tempted not to send it back just to spite Ian, but in Southside every penny counts. This time he goes to the post office alone and sober; his Spanish is finally good enough to hold a basic conversation, so there's no need for a translator.

He pays Pablo another eighty dollars, but tells him that the only thing in the envelope is a ridiculous amount of love letters. He's not going to risk somebody stealing his cash.

Mickey wants to feel some sense of closure as he leaves the post office, but there is none. If anything, he feels more anxious than ever. Everything in him wants to include a note or give Ian some way to contact him, but he can't handle the rejection.

He still thinks about Ian much more than he would like. Sometimes, he even finds himself wondering about Debbie and Fiona. Are they alright? Are Ian's meds working? Does he still have a boyfriend?

There are a lot of questions Mickey's not even sure he wants the answers to.

A year and a half after Mickey arrives in Mexico, he opens a bank account. It's not a voluntary choice. Alejandra takes one look at Mickey's mattress, under which he's been stuffing all his cash, and tells him he's an idiot. She talks to Carlos, and the next thing he knows Carlos is handing him a fake driver's license, birth certificate, and immigration form.

According to the forms his name is now 'Mickey Joseph Smith', he was born in Texas, and he graduated from college with a degree in communications (a subject which Mickey hopes isn't supposed to indicate he likes talking to people). Fuck.

Alejandra forces Mickey to get all dressed up, bag his cash, and take it to the bank. As Mickey signs to the forms to open his first bank account, he thinks about Ian. He remembers how fucking weird and domestic it was for Ian to have a bank account when Mickey planned on robbing the place.

Mickey wonders what Ian would say if he saw him now. Mickey has a bank account, an apartment, and a fancy fucking legal job. Ian wants something stable, something where there's no jail or bullets flying everywhere. How ironic that Ian left just when Mickey could have given him that.

Mickey wonders if this would have been enough for him.

* * *

After a year and nine months, Mickey sees the beach. Maria begs Carlos to take a day off and drive her to a small beach three hours away. Carlos invites Mickey because he thinks they can make a good profit off of the hippies that like to pick up trash on the weekends. Mickey invites Alejandra because there's no way they will ever sell any drugs with Maria glued to their side.

The beach isn't very crowded, but it's not very quiet either. Mickey wears a pair of sunglasses and a hat resting low on his eyes. The water is blue, the bluest Mickey's ever seen, and the sand is soft under his feet. The waves are gentle today, and slowly consume his toes when he steps close enough.

Mickey and Carlos sell all the drugs they brought within the hour. Mickey's constantly looking over his shoulder out of fear the police are going to show up at any moment, but they never come. In total, they pocket about a thousand dollars in cash. It's a good day.

Mickey's proud that he's not spending the entire time moping. He's proud he can be somewhere like this and not only think about how he wishes Ian was there. Of course, it still hurts, and he really does wish Ian was there. But he's not thinking about that. He's not.

Alejandra, Maria, and Carlos all end up splashing each other in the water while Mickey watches from the shore. The sight makes him smile just a little. It's not Ian, but it's good. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, and Mickey thinks it's the most beautiful place he's ever been .

For the first time in two years Mickey thinks he's going to be okay.

* * *

Two years and one month; Seven hundred and sixty one days after they said goodbye. That's how long it takes for Ian Gallagher to find his way back into Mickey's life. Mickey's not prepared.

* * *

Mickey is working at the hardware store when he notices a silver car pass by the window. It's much too nice for their neighborhood, but he figures it's probably just someone passing through. Besides, he's busy making a list of tools they need to order by tomorrow.

Tom starts giving Mickey more responsibility when he realizes Mickey's not a drug addict or a complete bum. Now he places orders and works the register. Sometimes Tom even sends Mickey on the house calls (when it's something minor like a broken sink or pipe). It's not much, but it pays better, and Mickey no longer wants to shoot himself during work.

His peace is interrupted when Carlos bursts through the door, nearly breaking the hinges.

"There's a white guy waving your picture around, wondering where you are," Carlos snaps.

The first thought in Mickey's brain is police. The motherfuckers finally found him.

"Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it."

Mickey sprints for the backdoor, Carlos right on his heels. Once he's outside, he runs down the backside of the shops towards the apartments. He can't run onto the road or someone will see him. He can't hide in his apartment either because someone will know who he is.

Carlos darts ahead of him. "I'll hide you in my apartment, come on."

They take the steps two at a time, and Mickey checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is following them. Carlos is stuffing his hands in his pockets, but no keys emerge.

"Hurry the fuck up," Mickey snaps.

"I can't find my keys. I think I left them at my mom's."

"Fucking hell!"

Mickey darts up the stairs, praying that Alejandra is home. She's always talking about the ridiculous times she's working, and now Mickey really wishes he listened. He bangs on her door and almost screams when she opens. He pushes through her before she can say anything.

"You don't fucking know me. I moved away a week ago or some shit. Got it?" Mickey says.

He looks around Alejandra's apartment for a hiding place and settles for rolling under her bed. It's humiliating, but all he feels is fear once there's a knock on the door. The voices are too quiet for him to properly hear. He just prays that the officer's an idiot and won't ask too many questions.

A few minutes later, Alejandra pokes her head under the bedskirt and let's Mickey know it's safe. Carlos is standing in the kitchen, leaning against the table. Silence.

"Milkovich, huh?" Alejandra finally says.

"Yea."

Carlos laughs. "Hell of lot better than _Smith_."

* * *

That night Mickey and Carlos do their rounds in half the time. It's not even dark out when they're finished. Carlos dashes off to dinner with Maria, leaving Mickey alone. Mickey's too anxious to focus, and he just wants to curl up on his bed. He can't believe the cops are still looking for him after two years. Don't they have other escaped convicts to worry about?

He's walking to his apartment when he notices the silver car is parked outside the diner. Mickey's first instinct is to run, but it doesn't look like a cop car and there's no one inside. He figures he can keep his head down and sneak by.

The plan is going swimmingly until he hears the door of the diner open and slam shut.

"Mickey!"

He freezes. He'd know that voice anywhere. Ian fucking Gallagher.

When Mickey turns around Ian is staring at him from ten feet away. Ian doesn't try to move, which if good because Mickey's not sure what would happen if he did. He looks the same as he did two years ago; red hair, pale skin. It's like nothing has changed since they said goodbye at the border.

They just stare at each other for a couple minutes before Ian closes the distance and wraps Mickey in his arms. Mickey's too shocked to respond; his arms hang loose at his side and he can't say anything.

"I've been looking for you for a month. Your neighbor said you moved, so I drove up to the next town, but you weren't there either. I started thinking I wasn't going to find you," Ian says.

Half of Mickey wants to curl around Ian and hold him, but the other half wants to punch him. What right did Ian have to show up here just as Mickey was finally getting over him? Ian told him that this wasn't what he wanted anymore; that Mickey wasn't what he wanted anymore.

Mickey weakly pushes Ian away. "You shouldn't have come."

"What?"

"I said you shouldn't have come!"

"Mickey-"

"No. Just leave me the fuck alone."

Mickey turns around and storms for his apartment. He's not doing this again. He's not going to let Ian back into his life when he knows it's only a matter of time before he'll leave. No fucking thank-you.

"Mickey, come on."

Ian tries to grab his shoulder, but Mickey brushes it off. He's not doing this. Not after what happened at the border..

"I mean it Ian, go the fuck away."

Mickey already has his keys in hand when he reaches his apartment door. Ian is babbling on about something, but Mickey's not listening. How did Ian even find him? Mickey never put a return address, and he sure as hell didn't give Ian any information about his whereabouts. Maybe he was dating a cop or something.

Ian sticks his hand between the door and the wall. "Mickey, would you just listen?"

"Fuck off."

"Mickey!"

"No, Ian. Go back to your fucking boyfriend! Remember him, remember that guy you kept telling me about!"

"I'm not with him anymore. I'm not with anyone. I'm here for you."

Mickey finally stops trying to wrestle the door shut. It's everything he's ever wanted to hear. He could give in. He could give in, and Ian would be his. But he can't.

"Me huh? Two years ago you said this wasn't what you wanted. Guess what, maybe you're not what I want anymore. "

Ian stops fighting to keep the door open. Mickey sort of stares him for a moment before slamming the door in his face.

Fuck Ian Gallagher.

* * *

To Mickey's surprise Ian doesn't leave. He overhears two women at the shop talking about the red haired boy who moved in upstairs. It's not like he cares or anything, but it's nice to know Ian's adapting.

A few days after Ian arrives, he and Alejandra are sitting outside their apartments in lawn chairs. Someone dumped them there a few weeks ago, but no one was willing to move them. Instead of letting them go to waste, it became Mickey and Alejandra's tradition to sit on them late and night and share a beer (or orange soda for Alejandra-she didn't drink before work).

"I met Ian today," Alejandra says.

"So?"

"I like him. He seems sweet."

"No, no, no! You're not supposed to like him. You're supposed to….I don't know...punch him or something."

"Do you want me to punch him?"

Mickey take another sip of beer. "No."

* * *

Ian starts working as an EMT at the same hospital as Alejandra. According to her, he's pretty fucking amazing. Mickey's filled with a strange mix of pride and anger. This is the guy he watched charge down the hall swinging a baseball cap and look where he is now. But...if it's so easy for Ian to find a job here, why didn't he come with Mickey? Mickey would have given Ian anything. Why couldn't he have given them a chance?

* * *

Mickey only sees Ian on occasion. Sometimes, if he's watching real careful, he can see Ian walking back to the apartment from work. He's always carrying his EMT bag, and usually he's not home until midnight. Not that Mickey's counting.

The first Tuesday after Mickey saw him, Ian stops by the store when Mickey's working. Mickey tries to hide in the back with the unopened boxes of wrenches, but the nosy motherfucker finds him anyways.

"The fuck you want?" Mickey demands.

"I just wanted to see if the rumors were true. You got a fucking legal job and everything."

Mickey rips the open a box with an exacto. "Only during the day."

The bell on the door rings, and Mickey peeks around Ian to see Mrs. Perez limp into the store. She's nice enough, but the old woman is deaf as a bat. When she starts reaching for screw drivers, which Mickey knows she can't use, he gently pushes Ian to the side.

"Mrs. Perez," he shouts in Spanish, "You don't need that stuff!"

"Oh, it's just a little leak. I'm sure this will do the trick."

"No, it fucking won't. Tom will be at your house in Wednesday."

"But that's when my granddaughter will be visiting. She's such a sweet-"

"Well, unless you want water fucking soaking through your floors, your granddaughter will just have to deal."

She glares at Mickey for seconds, but eventually leaves. Mickey goes back to slicing open the boxes. He wishes Ian would just leave, and he's not just talking about the store. He wishes Ian would leave Mexico and leave Mickey in peace.

"Wow," Ian whistles, "You're a real charmer."

"Get the fuck out."

* * *

They start fucking three weeks after Ian arrives. Mickey figures it's kind of inevitable; he's only human, and it's been forever since he's had a really good fuck. How is he supposed to resist when there is someone willing to do him only one floor away?

It happens when Mickey's getting home late from his job with Carlos, and Ian's returning from a sixteen hour shift. He can't remembers how it happens, but Mickey ends up pinned between the doorframe and a very enthusiastic Ian. Eventually, they make it to Mickey's bed where they spend the next few hours naked and sweating.

When it's over, Ian rolls off him and quietly laughs. Mickey's too sedated to respond, so he focuses on slowing down his breath.

Only, when Ian slings his arm around Mickey like he's going to curl up against him, Mickey snaps out of his dream state. He's not doing this again. He's not going to let Ian Gallagher back into his life like he's some bitch that's at his whim. Not again. Not again.

Mickey jumps off the mattress and tosses Ian's clothes to him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ian asks.

"This ain't a fucking slumber party."

"I thought-"

"You thought wrong. Fucking doesn't mean anything, Ian. I've been stuck here for two goddamn years. I'm desperate."

Ian flinches, and Mickey almost wishes he hadn't added the last part.

* * *

A few days later Mickey fucks a stranger in the diner bathroom, and he makes sure Ian knows it. Maybe it's a little sadistic, but Mickey wants Ian to hurt. He wants Ian to feel what Mickey felt when he got out of jail; like someone crushed his soul because the one person who he thought loved him more than anyone else in the world, who he thought he could count on wasn't there.

He feels Ian uncomfortably shift on top of him as he smells the scent of sex on Mickey's skin.

"You removed the tattoo," Ian whispers.

That's not what he's expecting to come out of Ian's mouth when he clearly knows he's not the only one Mickey's been naked with that day. For a moment his mind runs blank, but he recovers quickly.

"Never should have gotten it in the first place."

Mickey hopes that hurts.

* * *

"You're acting like a child," Alejandra tells him as they're carrying boxes up the stairs.

Alejandra bought new furniture from a catalogue and it just arrived today. Mickey felt like being a fucking gentlemen and helping her carry one or two boxes up to her room. Last time he'll ever fucking do that.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you're acting like a child. You don't just string people along because you know they'll follow you."

"I don't remember asking for your fucking advice."

Alejandra opens the door to her apartment and gestures to Mickey to put the box on the table. He's going to get the fuck out of there when Alejandra grabs his arm.

"You have an actual chance to be happy. Don't fuck it up."

* * *

After six weeks, they have a routine-if it could be called that. Ian drops by Mickey's place three or four times a week depending on his work schedule. Mickey never goes to Ian's apartment. It feels safer when he has the homefield advantage.

One Friday night, Mickey knows something is different. Ian gave up trying to touch Mickey any way after sex, but usually he's somewhat chatty. Tonight he's silent as he slips his clothes back on. Mickey's content to let him go about his own business, but Ian's never been one for keeping quiet.

"I have to go back to the States on Sunday."

Mickey curtly laughs. "Hope you've enjoyed your stay."

"I'm coming back. It's only for a few days."

Mickey raises his eyebrow. He's not stupid enough anymore to believe every promise that comes out of Ian Gallagher's mouth.

"I need to refill my meds and find the closest clinic down here that can stocks them. Plus, it's good to check in with the family. I'll be a week at max."

"Whatever."

Ian turns to look Mickey in the eye. "I mean it. I'm coming back."

"Sure you are."

* * *

Mickey wants to feel relieved when Ian leaves, but he doesn't. All the progress he's made in the last two years is gone. He's back to thinking about Ian Gallagher twenty four hours a day. He wonders what he's doing, what he's thinking about, did he make it across the border okay. When Mickey realizes he's contemplating asking for Ian's cell number once he comes back, he rams his head into the nearest shelf. Clearly, there's something wrong with his brain.

He's not doing this again. He won't doing this again.

Ian does not return in a week. When the next Tuesday rolls around, Mickey starts forcing himself to consider the possibility that Ian's really not coming back. _He had his fun, checked in to make sure you weren't dead in a ditch, got laid, and now he's back to his real life,_ Mickey thinks.

He tries to be positive. Now he knows he'll never see Ian again. Except, his positivity comes out in rage. Carlos suffers the brunt of it when they head out later that night. After about an hour, Carlos tells him to go home because beating druggies to a pulp is bad for business. Mickey snaps some shitty comment at him, but ultimately follows his advice.

Mickey nurses his wounds the best way he knows how. Alcohol. A fuck ton of alcohol.

The next morning, once he can finally see straight, he resolves to stop acting like a pussy. He will not let Ian Gallagher waltz in and out of his life. This is the end. The final fucking end.

There's a knock on his door. Mickey assumes it's Alejandra coming to scold him for making too much noise last night or pissing off Carlos. He can't wait until she sees how shitfaced he is; she might kill him.

"You're not my mother. It's my goddamn life, I can do-" Mickey stops when he sees the person standing in the doorway.

Ian fucking Gallagher.

"Were you saying something about your mom?"

Despite his best efforts Mickey smiles a little. He's too hungover to think rationally. All he knows is he would really like Ian naked right then.

"Shut the fuck up and come here."

* * *

Three months after Ian Gallagher reenters his life, Mickey gets shot. It's truly a miracle it's taken this long, but bullets still hurt like a motherfucker.

He are Carlos are tasked with getting money from Martin, a meth addict who more or less lives in various apartments when they're empty. He's a regular, but he rarely ever has the money to pay his bills. It's not the first time Mickey and Carlos have roughed Martin up for money, but it's the first time he brings a gun.

In all honesty, Martin's not aiming for them. He's not a psychopath. But after Carlos shoves him against the wall, Martin gets scared and starts waving the gun around like a maniac.

Mickey almost dodges the bullet. Almost.

It hits him right in the center of his thigh, and he's down. Martin drops the gun and runs while Carlos begins applying pressure to the wound.

"We've got to get you to a hospital, amigo," Carlos says.

"No! No! No fucking hospitals."

If he goes to a hospital, he'll be deported for sure.

"Let's get you to Alejandra's. She knows something about medicine, right?"

Mickey hopes it's a good sign he can still sort of walk on his leg, even though most of his weight is on Carlos. Alejandra lets out a tiny scream before Carlos can cover her mouth. But once she recovers, she moves quickly for towels and her nursing bag.

As she pokes and prods inside his leg, Mickey sends probably the first real prayer in his life. _God, please don't let me die on_ _Alejandra's kitchen floor._

Mickey tries to be quiet, but he must have let some noise slip because for some reason Ian Gallagher takes it upon himself to bust through the apartment door. He takes one look at Mickey and is running back to his apartment saying something about his EMT bag.

"You really should go to a hospital," Alejandra says.

"Not a fucking option."

Ian returns and kneels next to Alejandra. Mickey doesn't want Ian touching him, and he weakly tries to push him away, but it's useless.

Ian and Alejandra are talking about blood loss or something along those lines, but Mickey's having trouble focusing. His vision's blurry, and he's really tired. Ian's voice sounds like it's underwater.

The last thing Mickey remembers before slipping into unconscious is Ian's stupid fucking red hair.

* * *

Mickey wakes up to the feeling of fingers dancing up and down his thigh. Normally, he would have jumped up and punched whoever was doing it, but he finds his body is too heavy to do anything. Instead, he groans.

"Morning sleeping beauty," Ian says, leaning over him.

"The fuck happened?"

"You took a bullet to the leg and passed out. Alejandra was moments away from calling the hospital, but I convinced her otherwise."

"Why's the world so goddamn spinny?"

"That's the morphine. I managed to steal a few tablets from the hospital. Don't worry, it'll wear off in a few hours, and that's when the fun really starts."

Mickey groans again. There's a glass of water sitting on the table, and he's so thirsty, but he just can't reach it.

"I have to get to work, but Alejandra said she'll check on you during lunch. Until then, Maria's in the kitchen if you need anything."

Mickey thinks Ian's going to leave, but he leans down and kisses Mickey on the forehead. He knows he should beat the shit out of Ian right there. He should; it would make him feel better. But he doesn't. And it's not because he's too drugged to move.

* * *

Mickey's up and moving three days later. Alejandra painstakingly reminds him how luck he is that the bullet didn't hit a bone or any major organs. It could have been a lot worse.

When Alejandra stops holding him hostage in her bedroom like a mother hen and lets him return home, Mickey finds a bag of heroin sitting on his bed. It's Martin's twisted way of apologizing. He's tempted to use some of it to stop the pain in his leg, but he decides he'll use to the funds to pay for a nice dinner or girly shit for Alejandra.

Then there's the matter of Ian. Mickey figures he owes him something for the whole 'stopping him from bleeding to death' incident. Maybe now is time to set the record straight; they can hook up whenever, but Mickey's drawing the line there. If Ian wants more he needs to look somewhere else.

With that resolution Mickey careful drags himself up the stairs to the door he knows is Ian's. It's not like he was eavesdropping or anything, but he heard someone mention Ian's off days while they were shopping.

Ian opens the door like he's still half asleep. When he sees Mickey he smiles. All the words Mickey planned to say slip his mind. He remembers wanting to say something, but now he's just thinking about Ian's smile.

"What are you doing here, Ian?"

"It's my apartment."

"No, I mean what are you doing _here_? After..."

Ian looks uncomfortable. "You know why I couldn't come with you."

"Oh yea, you had your fancy life to get back to. My apologies I wasn't good enough for you."

"It wasn't like that, Mick. I loved you. I wanted to be with you. But we weren't seventeen anymore. I couldn't do the guns and the running from the cops. I had stability in my life for the first time, and I couldn't just give it up."

Mikey's blood starts boiling. The lonely nights waiting for Ian while he was in the hospital, the lonely nights in prison, the lonely nights in Mexico. All because of Ian.

"What about what I gave up, Ian? For you. I came out for you! Remember that? Remember my dad trying to fucking kill me? I went to fucking jail for you! I did everything I could to make you happy, and in the end it didn't fucking matter, did it? Because you couldn't even bother to take one day, one day, out of your perfect life and come visit me!"

"It was just hard. I always though-"

"I don't fucking care! You think it was easy for me to drive you to the nuthouse! You think I wanted to let them take you away! No! But I did it! I fucking made sure you got your meds and didn't fly off the walls!"

"Mick-"

"Do you know why I did that? Because I fucking loved you, and I knew you needed me! That's what you do when you love someone, Ian. You don't abandon them when life gets hard!"

Ian's silent. Mickey runs his fingers through his hair. His heart is racing, but any of the adrenalin he had is gone. Now everything just hurts. The pain in his leg is starting to act up, and he can practically hear Alejandra scolding him for overexerting himself.

"I just wanted-" Mickey's throat closes before he can get the words out.

He takes another deep breath. _Calm the fuck down._

"I remember thinking for the first time in my fucked up existence that I had someone who cared. I had someone who loved me. It took me a while, but I finally figured out I was wrong."

Ian won't even make eye contact with him now. Mickey wants him to say something, anything. He's waited two years; he deserves something.

"You really think I don't love you?" Ian whispers.

"What the hell else am I supposed to think?"

Ian's quiet after that, and Mickey knows the conversation is over. Besides, he doesn't think he can stay on this leg any longer without having to roll down the stairs.

"I wish I never fucking met you," Mickey says.

* * *

Mickey stays in his bed for two days. He calls in sick to work, and tells Carlos to fuck off. The only times he gets up are to pee and brush his teeth (because damn is morning breath fucking smelly). At various times he hears knocking on the door. It could be Ian, Carlos, who knows. He doesn't answer.

He only opens the door when Alejandra starts yelling about changing bandages and infections. Even then, he lays on his bed while she delicately wraps his leg without saying a word. She tells him to take two pills she stole from the hospital to get the swelling down and try to avoid stairs. Mickey thinks that one is easy. He's never leaving this bed again.

* * *

A week. That's how long before Mickey sees Ian again. Carlos drags him out of his apartment for a beer in celebration of passing his GED test. It's nothing fancy, just shitty beer at the diner, but it's something.

Mickey's too depressed to celebrate, but he goes along to please Carlos. He instantly regrets it when Carlos starts not-so-subtly hinting Mickey should try to enroll.

"It's super easy man," Carlos says.

"You fucking failed three times."

"Yea, but now I can get a real job like you. I want to buy the room next to us as an anniversary gift to Maria."

Mickey sort of laughs at how stupid they are before taking another sip of beer. He probably shouldn't be drinking this on an empty stomach, but his choices haven't exactly been responsible lately.

"Hey, Mickey. Look who's coming."

Mickey turns to where Carlos is pointing at Ian Gallagher coming through the door. Mickey tenses. Can't he just have one place that is still safe?

"I'll leave you two to your business."

"No need, I'm leaving too."

Mickey's in the process of sliding his cash across the bar when Ian wanders over. Poor Carlos looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"Mickey, can I-can I talk to you? Please," Ian asks.

"I've said everything I wanted to say."

"But I haven't."

Mickey's too tired to fight him. He wants all this to be over, and for his life to go back to way it was before Ian. Before he allowed himself to become tangled in the Gallagher's lives.

Ian sits next to Mickey and orders a beer. For a while it's quiet. Mickey's getting real sick of silence; if Ian wants to say anything, he should say it now.

"I should have visited you. I was just so busy trying to restart my life that I blocked out everything that happened before. It wasn't fair to you."

Ian looks at Mickey like he wants him to say something. Mickey refuses to open his mouth. He has nothing to say.

"Trevor and I broke up when I got back from the border. We tried to make it work, but the trust was gone. I had a few boyfriends, but it wasn't the same. Not after you."

"That supposed to make me feel fucking special or something?"

"I got your letter. That's how I found you actually. Just because you don't put a return address on it, doesn't mean there aren't other ways to track it down."

Mickey looks down the end of the beer bottle, imagining all the ways he can kill Pablo. So much for discretion.

"I read it everyday. Sometimes I thought about driving across the border and hunting you down. I got all the way out of the city once before I stopped myself."

"Another beer," Mickey says sliding the bartender a bill.

"Monica died while I was with you in Texas. Frank disappeared last summer to god knows where. Fiona thinks he probably drunkenly stepped in front of a bus, but something tells me he's still around."

Mickey waits for Ian to continue. He's not sure he wants to hear all of this, but it's too late to stop now.

"Lip...went to rehab. For real this time. He's the one who told me to go for what I wanted. He said that he fucked up his chance at life, and that if I kept letting happiness slip away, one day I'd look back and ask what the fuck I was thinking."

Mickey's happy for Lip. They were never close, but he's seen what alcohol did to Frank. The Gallaghers don't need more problems than they already have.

"I know you're angry, but I want us to try again, if you're up for it. We can do it right this time. I love you, and I can't imagine my life without you."

Mickey rubs his finger on the bottle. "You said it yourself. We're not seventeen anymore."

"Yea...that's why it can work. We're older and not so reckless anymore. We know how to make this work."

It's been two years, four months, and eighteen days since Mickey thought he'd lost the only person who ever meant something to him. And it's been two years, four months, and eighteen lonely night, reaching next to him for a warm body that was never there. Two years, four months, and eighteen days of wishing he'd never met that stupid boy with red hair.

"I promise, Mickey, this time we're in this together," Ian says.

Mickey's not sure he believes him; not sure he's ever going to believe him. But Mickey tired of fighting. He's tired of being lonely and angry. He's tired of feeling empty. Mostly, he's tired of pushing Ian away.

Mickey closes the distance between them to lean his head on Ian's shoulder. He doesn't care if anyone's watching, let them. For the first time in two years, four months, and eighteen days he no longer feels alone.

"I love you," Ian whispers.

Mickey quiet for a second. "You too, Gallagher."

* * *

Later, Ian is asleep in Mickey's bed with their clothes thrown carelessly about the room. Ian has already started talking about buying a bed frame and actual kitchen utensils. Mickey shuts him up by shoving his tongue down his throat and rolling on top of him. He'll never say it outloud, but the idea of something slightly more domestic isn't revolting...it's kind of nice.

When Ian folds around him, Mickey doesn't pull away. He allows himself to relax and breath in the scent that is uniquely Ian. Ian pulls him close and tells him how much he loves him, and how he'll never leave him. Mickey begs him not to break his heart.

Promises are made; the type that Mickey finds hard to trust. But Ian rubs circles on his back and kisses his neck while murmuring reassuring words. Then, it's Mickey's turn to promise Ian Gallagher everything he has to offer. They're both still hurting, but they can fix each other.

Ian passes out with his head resting on Mickey's chest. Looking at Ian, Mickey thinks this is what contentment must feels like. He hasn't told Ian yet, but he's going back to the tattoo parlor. Ian Gallagher's name will once again ink his skin, except on his wrist this time where everyone can see. It'll be spelled right too.

As he looks around his room, a piece of paper sticking out of Ian's jacket (currently under Mickey's pants) catches his eye. He recognizes the sloppy drunk handwriting as his own. It's _the_ letter.

Since Ian doesn't appear to be waking up anytime soon, Mickey quietly detangles himself and stands up. He still can't remembers what he wrote, and damn is he curious. He briefly considers whether this is an invasion of privacy, but reminds himself he wrote the damn this. Then, he removes the envelope.

 _Fuck you, Ian. Fuck you. I hope you're fucking happy now. You no longer have to feel responsible for my sorry ass. Did you ever plan on going with me or did you just feel too sorry for me to say anything? My life's fucking amazing by the way. I've got an apartment and everything. I don't need you and your fucking problems._

 _I miss you. I really fucking miss you. I think about you all the time even when I know I'm not supposed to. Sometimes, I like to dream about what would have happened if you came with me. You'd like it down here. It's always warm, and the people are pretty okay too. There's a hospital somewhere around here. You could have still been an EMT._

 _I wish I left without saying goodbye to you. That way you'd never have gotten my hopes up like that. I never would have believed we could actually be together._

 _Do you know how much I love you? It's pathetic really. Tonight, my friend, Carlos, proposed to his girlfriend. Everyone's busy celebrating, but all I can think about how much I wish that was us. I'm turning into a fucking girl. But I guess you've already seen me in a dress, so what's the fucking difference?_

 _I hope you're living some white picket fence life with a husband and two dogs. I hope you found someone who gives you everything I didn't. Fuck you. And fuck him. Why couldn't that have been us._

 _I think this is goodbye. I'll send you back the cash you gave me once I have enough. I'm working at a real job now. Hear that? I'm no longer that fucking reckless trash you didn't want to be with. Maybe you can use it to buy your fucking husband dinner or something._

 _Fuck you. Just so that's clear._

 _-Mickey_

 _P.S. I love you. So goddamn much. Please just come home._

End.


End file.
